by Damon Hubbs
Galesburg
It took me all day to figure
out that line. What a loss of capital.
I’m old. I had to google TERF and now your obsession
with the train scene in Risky Business
Honey, wake up. That’s the Long Island Rail Road.
That’s the book you’ll never read.
Give me this and give me that and O this too.
Here are the midpoint talkers
the girl’s day controversy, the French palm of Galesburg,
the balcony routines and missing stair.
Remind me to call the guys in Toronto
check the back files, feed the oxen of the sun.
I rely on bad conditions.
I watch the sportsman chase a blue deer.
He needs a miracle I’m not gonna lie
I wanna do coke with Kyrgios I wanna fuck Lindsay Clancy.
He’s not followed by anyone your following
the sportsman, or the blue deer.
The last arrow off the roof burns a hole in my throat.
Tinkerbell
And now all this business about the artificial state,
the birds behaving strangely, the gallery filled with tennis balls.
The ancients put water above earth
and my barge, jailed in Newburyport —alas
Sweet Merrimack, run softly till I end my song
Our mutual friend
in the American Rhineland
stole my Books of Blood
I grew wings when I tinkered with her bell
She ate Fatburger
talked Jung’s theory of the shadow,
wrote poems
about poems
while merging on the freeway.
It’s a mystery starter
like staging a possession
that awful bliss of god
my android he do
the police
in different voices.
Damon Hubbs is a poet from New England. Recent publications include The Bulb Region, Trampoline, The Literary Underground, The Gorko Gazette, Revolution John, Horror Sleaze Trash, and others. He is the author of the poetry collections Nighttime Logic and Venus at the Arms Fair. He is the editor of Ape House Magazine.